The Misadventures of a Minuscule Blogger
by Lizzie1498
Summary: Basically a running story on Pocket John and his favorite Detective. Warnings for extreme fluff, cuteness and some angst.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock heard tossing and turning amongst the little bedsheets on John's bed and then a little wheezy huff as the sheets finally lay still.

Standing up and going over to his bureau where "John's room" was, he gently poked the little lump on the home made bed behind the privacy of the dark curtain.

A small groan, barely audible rasped, "Go'way Sh'lck."

Sherlock poked the squishy lump again.

This time a little face poked out from the covers, his hair was sticking in all directions and random patterns from being pressed into the sheets etched his deathly pale face that made the blood shot eyes even more frightening.

"Oh, John, You're sick. Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock tutted and gently extracted his John from the tangle of sheets and cradled the sleepy man in his hands.

"S'ry, I th'ght I'd be o'er it by now." John yawned and rubbed his hot eyes.

"Jesus, John! You're burning up! How long have you been feeling like this?" Sherlock placed his pinkie finger up against the tiny forehead and then the small chest, even through the clothing he was intensely fevered.

John difficulty sat up in the cool hands and thought for a moment through his throbbing headache.

"C'n you please n't t'lk so loud…" John gently massaged his temples, hoping to ease the pressure.

Sherlock sighed before whispering, "I'm sorry. But please tell me you haven't been suffering for so long."

"St'rted 'bout three days ago but it g't worse l'st night." John lay down in Sherlock's surprisingly soft hands, wanting to drift back off so he wasn't in pain.

Sherlock's heart clenched at seeing his little friend so weak.

"Don't worry, John. I'll make you better." Sherlock held John close to his heart as he pulled out his laptop and researched possible illnesses.

Each tab he clicked worried him more and more as he came by deathly illnesses and diseases, after pulling up a incredibly painful and terminal disease he closed his laptop and looked down at his dozing John.

He loved his diminutive little friend. He had bought him from an abusive owner and took him in. Sherlock never thought of these "Pocket People" as inferior to him and he looked at John like a best Friend, which he was. And to Sherlock, John was the biggest man in the world.

John shifted in the warm palm, the wriggling turned into tossing and turning until he was thrashing in Sherlock's hands.

Panicking, Sherlock gently prodded John's back and finally managing to rouse him as he screamed from his fever-induced nightmare.

John, falling completely limp in Sherlock's open palm breathed heavily, his little heart beating incredibly fast in his rapidly rising and falling chest.

It reminded Sherlock of a little wounded bird he had found before taking it to the local veterinarian. He remembered how frightened and pained the small creature looked as its heart thumped audibly like a drum roll.

John looked just like that little bird.

The bird had died.

He wouldn't allow John the same fate.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock whispered even though he knew the answer.

Gently nodding through his tears, John let out a frightened sob. The nightmare had been so vivid and frightening, it bought him back to the days where his ex-owner had abused him. Starving him, manhandling his fragile body, leaving him to fend for himself when he was ill or injured, once he even put him on the window sill of the third story flat they lived in and left him there, clinging to the frost covered glass. Hours passed. It had been snowing.

Sherlock sighed in sympathy before gently turning John so he lay on his stomach, allowing Sherlock to caress the shuddering, sweaty back with his index finger. He noticed as he stroked the clothed back that John's spine was still far too accented for his liking. He had only bought John six months prior and he still hadn't been able to fatten him up no matter how he tried. It took them the better part of their time together to force an ounce on the four inch tall figure. And being ill for all of three days took away at least 3 ounces. Which in their situation was massive.

After about half an hour, John had finally settled down, his breath coming normally and he seemed ready to drift off again. Sherlock had massaged his back the whole time, humming deep and quietly in his throat all the while.

But before he was to sleep, Sherlock desperately needed an accurate reading of his temperature because the thick skin of Sherlock's fingers weren't very precise.

Going to the bathroom, Sherlock single-handedly rifled through the cabinet as quietly as he could before he found a little blue rectangular case, smaller than his pinkie finger. He also snatched up the small tub of Vaseline and a flannel.

The thermometer had belonged to the people who lived in the flat before him, disinfected and rarely used. Practically new.

Going back into the kitchen, Sherlock placed an asleep John in his breast pocket and thoroughly washed his hands with hot water before disinfecting the baby thermometer again. Reaching into the cabinet, he found a small bowl and filled it with luke-warm water. After drying both his hands and the thermometer he went to the couch and placed down his supplies on the coffee table before reaching into his pocket to scoop up a very hot John. Grabbing a pillow and the flannel on the table with one hand he tucked John to lie on his shoulder with the other, where he felt two little hands grasp the silky material tightly. Placing the pillow on his lap, he arranged the flannel to lie across and then practically prying John off his shoulder, lay him on his back in the center where he blinked up at him curiously.

Time to break the news….

"John," He whispered, "I need to take your temperature. It will only take five minutes, Okay?" Sherlock picked up the Thermometer and Vaseline.

John looked horrified and attempted to sit up as quickly as possible, only to be gently pressed back down.

"It's an infant thermometer, John. I'll be gentle, I won't hurt you."

John squeaked in a panic, "No! No, please don't! I don't have a fever!" He was fully alert now. Squirming uselessly as Sherlock kept him carefully pinned.

"Calm Down, John. I'm not going to hurt you. I just need a quick temperature and then I will have a better idea of what we are up against." Sherlock soothed.

"Sherlock, Please don't!" John began to tear up, his little chest heaving again as he grew more and more petrified. Sherlock hated seeing him like this but he really needed a temperature and readings taken orally are not always accurate. With a body that small every tenth of a degree counted. It couldn't be risked.

Sherlock understood John's apprehension, he was a full grown man. Just miniature. It was probably humiliating and it would make him feel helpless, more so than he was at the moment. But Sherlock had seen John naked before, during a case that had ended with both of them falling into the frigid Thames, Sherlock had stripped John upon returning home since he couldn't move at the time and placed him in a little cup that he filled with water of varying degrees of warmth. After the shivering had died down Sherlock wrapped John in a freshly heated towel and placed him on his own bed before going to the shower to care for himself. After stepping out of the steaming spray he went back to his room and forgetting John was awake in his bed and not in the privacy of his "Room." Sherlock had dropped his towel and put on Pajama bottoms right in front of John who seemed quite intimidated at the time. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to get in bed to find a wide-eyed John staring at him. After an awkward pause they both laughed and Sherlock blushed brightly before fetching John a pair of his own bottoms and turning away to offer some kind of privacy for his little friend.

So nakedness wasn't the issue. But perhaps the sudden invasion was what was worrying John. That was also understandable, but he had studied medicine years before and he knew what to expect.

So maybe it was trust. Maybe John didn't trust Sherlock. He might think Sherlock would be too rough and hurt him, but the Detective couldn't think of a single reason as to why John wouldn't trust him. He had never deceived him or given him a reason to doubt him.

Then it clicked.

John was paranoid because he had thought back to his ex-owner and how he abused him and was convinced Sherlock was the same. Even though logic told John otherwise. Sherlock was suddenly sickened at the thought of how many ways that man had abused John. He was aware of the physical, emotional and mental torture. But maybe it went deeper than that? But no, that was beyond horrific-that was downright disturbing. Was John abused sexually?

The very thought of it made Sherlock furious to the core but he didn't let it show, he didn't want to upset him anymore than he was.

John was now thrashing underneath Sherlock's fingers and screaming as loud as his sore throat would allow.

Which was awfully impressive.

"Shh, John, hush, its okay." Sherlock soothed and gently ran a finger over the fluff of hair. "I understand why you are scared and I promise I am nothing like him. I'm just trying to make you better. Please let me."

John shouted more, so much he was having difficulty breathing. Sherlock stroked his head again and this time John reached up, snatching Sherlock's finger with surprising strength and bit down, drawing blood.

Hissing, Sherlock managed to wiggle his finger out of reach just as John was going in for another nip.

"Stop! I don't want you touching me! Leave me alone!" And with a final scream of frustration John went limp and fought for his breath back. Sherlock wiped his bleeding finger on the edge of the flannel before continuing to stroke the increasingly warm head. John allowed it. He knew he couldn't stop avoiding the inevitable.

"Please don't hurt me." The voice was incredibly small. Sherlock bit his cheek to stop a sob.

"I promise I won't. I never will." Sherlock removed the hand that was holding him down and continued carding a finger over the blonde hair.

"May I do this now?" Sherlock asked gently and wiped away a miniscule tear from the hot cheek.

John nodded.

With gentle fingers, Sherlock took off John's shirt and dampening a corner of the flannel wiped the sweat from his stomach and chest before gently rolling him onto his tummy and cleaning his back. He hoped the gesture would calm his little friend and it had the desired effect.

"Alright, let's get this over with." Sherlock carefully removed John's trousers before opening the jar of Vaseline and scooping out a fingerful, rubbed it generously on the tip of the thermometer.

"Okay, it helps if you relax. Trust me. I won't hurt you." John nodded, still on his tummy.

Sherlock gently removed his pants down to his ankles, trying desperately to ignore how John flinched.

John's legs automatically closed, practically glued to each other.

Sighing, Sherlock rubbed the naked back.

"Relax, the quicker you allow me, the quicker you can get dressed." John didn't dare move and instead of asking him again and only elevating the tension of the situation, Sherlock gently pried John's legs apart.

He felt awful for doing so. On top of being awkward and humiliating it sent pangs of sympathy through Sherlock's heart at hearing John sob and feeling him shake like a leaf under his hands.

Giving one last soothing stroke down the taut spine Sherlock gently inserted the tip of the Thermometer until John tensed. Sherlock stopped.

"See, all done. Great Job. Now just relax, deep breath, that's it." Sherlock comforted as John choked back another sob of fear. It hadn't hurt. John was grateful that Sherlock had been so gentle but he could still feel his insides clench in fear, his body still expected pain. None came.

Taking the sides of the flannel, Sherlock gently folded them over John, giving him some privacy as he caressed his head and waited for the thermometer to beep.

After the longest five minutes of John's life, the thermometer beeped and without removing the flannel, Sherlock reached inside and gently pulled the Thermometer out before reading the temperature.

105.3 F

Sherlock nearly dropped the thermometer.

"Oh, My God. John-" Quickly removing the flannel, he scooped John up and bought him to the bathroom sink where he gently opened the cool tap and allowed it to drizzle before placing John underneath.

The scream made him wince.

John flailed desperately, and finally caught Sherlock's finger and clinging to it with all his might begged him to turn the water off.

"John, you are far too fevered. The water is body temperature, it's not cold. Relax, Please." Sherlock begged and couldn't tear his eyes away from his John, screaming and crying in pain. But it had to be done, He had to cool down, fast. After a few minutes, Sherlock turned off the water and removed John, wrapping him in a small towel and holding him to his chest.

He didn't know what to do.

Sherlock didn't know John's illness.

Time for desperate measures.

Taking John with him, Sherlock walked down the stairs and knocked on the door of 221A.

Mrs. Hudson emerged to find a teary looking Sherlock clutching a bunched up towel.

"Oh, what's wrong Dear?" Mrs. Hudson gently cupped his cheek.

"John's sick. I don't know what's wrong with him. I thought, since you had kids you may know." Logical thinking, children got sick all the time. Besides, Mother's intuition is sometimes better than Doctor's.

"Poor Dear, Bring him in." They walked in to the smell of pastries, Sherlock sitting on the couch as Mrs. Hudson fetched her first aid kit before sitting next to Sherlock who slowly peeled back the covers to reveal a still nude John.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't fazed in the slightest, simply feeling the hot skin on his little chest before searching through her kit and finding a small pen light she encouraged John to open his mouth and she peered inside.

His throat was quite red and so were the insides of his ears.

"Do you have a headache, Dear?" Mrs. Hudson whispered. John nodded.

"How about your stomach? Hungry?" John shook his head.

"It hurts. Not hungry." He whined, the smell of food was making him nauseous.

"What was his temperature?" She asked.

Sherlock swallowed before whispering, "105.3"

She gasped.

"Oh, you poor dear. Sherlock, I believe he has the flu. Leave him with me and go fetch some medication." She gently pulled the cover up to his chest and took him from a reluctant Sherlock.

"Are you sure?" He asked as he stood. The flu seemed too simple for Sherlock.

"Yes, Now go." She shooed him away and held John close.

Sherlock never ran faster. He had made it to the Pharmacy three miles away, asked many questions, bought the supplies and raced back home in a record breaking 7 minutes and 38 seconds.

By the time he crashed into 221A, grabbed John and raced back upstairs Mrs. Hudson didn't know who to be more worried about.

Back in the flat, Sherlock placed the towel holding John on the cabinet and huffing desperately for breath still, shakily prepared a syringe. John peeked out from the folds and took in the sight of Sherlock looking terrified and breathing in such ragged gasps, he looked as if was going to pass out.

He quickly turned back to John who stared wide-eyed at the adult sized needle.

"Sorry-it took me-so long." Sherlock swallowed desperately before finally seeming to catch his breath.

John rubbed his bicep. Trying to calculate how such a large needle would fit into such a scrawny muscle.

"Oh, no. Sorry, John. But the Pharmacists said that your kind do not possess the desired amount of fatty tissue in your arm or thigh to withstand the needle. It needs a larger muscle."

John made to bolt.

He didn't get two inches before Sherlock had him on his lying on his stomach.

"You've manhandled my bum enough for one day! No!" Resistance was futile.

"It'll be over quickly." Sherlock promised. John fought with his last ounce of strength before giving in and allowing the tears to wash back over him. He just wanted to be healthy again. He wanted to eat, shower, sleep and stopped being poked and prodded and naked.

"Stay Calm, John. You should know that a tense muscle isn't going to help you."

But John couldn't relax, and Sherlock decided it would be kinder to just get it over with.

His own yelp pierced his ears as the bee-like sting pricked his right buttock. John blubbered loudly as the needle moved further in and shouted when the burning of the plunger being pushed down rushed over him. But as soon as the last of the medicine was injected Sherlock quickly removed the needle and picked up his John. Bringing them both into their room, Sherlock lay on his bed, cradling John to his chest as he cried himself to sleep.

A/N: Should I continue? I hope you enjoyed. 3 Sorry, I love sick tiny Jawn...

Dedicated to Claudia...who constantly reminds me to keep writing and has been a very good beta, at least when I remember to send her the chapters...

~Lizzie


	2. Chapter 2

John had awoken on a snoring chest finally able to breathe and sit up without his world spinning before his eyes. The fever was reduced to a slightly higher than average warmth and his stomach had stopped flipping. A good way to start the day.

Sherlock woke to a slight flutter underneath his palm, he lifted his hand gently when he realized it was John, wriggling to get out.

"Good morning, John." It was about 4 A.M. John yawned widely before sighing in contentment. He felt a lot better and apparently it showed because Sherlock smiled at him and stroked his hair.

"You look better." Sherlock sat up and gently felt John's chest, warm but not alarmingly so.

"But you still need to finish the rest of your medicine." Sherlock finished with an air of finality and rose with John sitting in his palm. Curling in on himself to preserve what little dignity he had since he was still naked he assured himself that it wasn't as bad. He probably was just over-reacting the first time. He would be brave this time; he wasn't going to blubber like a baby, not again.

All thoughts of bravery and self-preservation flew out the window as Sherlock pulled the plunger and filled the syringe with the milky liquid. John twitched anxiously on the tabletop. As Sherlock turned with syringe ready he was met with a pleading gaze of appeal and sighed.

"John, it is prescribed for every six hours, it's been a little over six and you need to finish the bottle to insure that the virus is wiped out. Come here."

John sighed shakily before trudging a few inches forward to Sherlock's out stretched hand, his little hands covering his nudeness. Sherlock plucked him up and carried him to the couch, might as well get comfortable.

Sitting on the couch, Sherlock draped John over his knee and held him down gently with two fingers noting with sadness that he was crying again.

"Hush, John, It's alright." He soothed and massaged gently as John hiccupped quietly. Deciding to administer the medicine before John became completely overwrought he increased his hold slightly and pushed the needle in as gently as he could. The precision of a Scientist's hands. By the time he withdrew the syringe John was blubbering in pain too exhausted from the past four days to move or fight in any way. Sherlock tsked in sympathy and brought John to his chest as he lay back on the couch. John could use a bit more rest before some proper breakfast. Soon enough the sobs diminished to whimpers which vanished soon enough, leaving a puffy faced pocket John sprawled on Sherlock's chest underneath the warmth of his hand. Dignity be damned.

Sherlock gently nudged him, "John? Would you like some breakfast or do you want to sleep?"

John yawned hugely and groggily lifted his head, "Toast and Jam?" He muttered hopefully.

Sherlock smiled and stood, bringing John to his room to get dressed and then carrying him back to the kitchen to prepare a snack.

Soon both of them were settled at the table munching at the golden bread, Sherlock picking at his while John ravenously devoured an entire half slice smothered in jam. Sherlock was impressed.

And rather amused because John's belly poked dangerously through the shirt and he looked ready to burst. Happy, full, content, and ripping at the seams, a smile plastered to his jam smeared face. Sherlock lovingly wiped it away, John didn't protest, feeling so much better and calmer.

The rest of the day was spent in peace, his fever had died down to practically normal and he ate whatever Sherlock fed him, which was an impressive amount. They had three ounces to put back on. John wasn't complaining, Sherlock was an excellent cook. After swallowing his second noodle he stood and waddled over to Sherlock who was tapping furiously on his mobile.

"Everything okay, Sherlock?" John plopped himself down on the edge of the table.

"Hmm?" Sherlock muttered thumbs still flying.

"Is everything okay?" John raised his voice.

"No. It's Moriarty." Sherlock growled.

Moriarty, John recognized the name, he had heard it before so many times. Moriarty, the name of a criminal genius they have yet to meet, his name transcending through their cases they had solved but never revealing himself as tangible, simply a name. Promising insanity and trouble in its wake.

"He's texting you? Like, it's actually him?" John stood and reached for Sherlock, wanting to see the messages himself. Sherlock obliged and confirmed his fears. Whoever this guy was, he was making himself known. The fragility of genius needs an audience.

Hey Sexy! It's been a while, I miss you.

Missed me?  
>~M<p> 


End file.
